A Study in the Supernatural
by DulcetThoughts
Summary: (Sherlock's got his own personal ghost. And it's John.) When John gets kidnapped, Sherlock is unable to get to him in time to stop him from being murdered by his spell-casting captor. Even though all seems lost, Sherlock's view of the world is flipped upside down when John's ghost shows up in the flat by one simple fact: the supernatural is real.
1. Always Has to Have the Last Word

_**Summary: When John gets kidnapped, Sherlock is unable to get to him in time to stop him from being murdered by his spell-casting captor. Even though all seems lost, Sherlock's view of the world is flipped upside down when John's ghost shows up in the flat.  
The supernatural is real.  
It doesn't stop there; it turns out the spell cast allows only her to bring John back. But she'll only do it if Sherlock investigates several odd serial murders that have occurred in the supernatural community. Sherlock's the only one who can touch John, but will that be enough to pull him out of the grave?**_

_**UPDATE: In light of a recent comment, I also want to add that no terminology used in description of the mystic woman in this fiction has any relation to the promotion of real life stereotypes. She is no reflection on any real life ethic/people group. Everything in this work is fiction, and should remain so. Also, I apologize to anyone offended by the term 'gypsy' used previously in fic, I did not know the negative meaning it had to very real group of people.**_

Sherlock sat on the sofa, finger steepled under his chin, staring intently at the door. John should have been home exactly one hour and forty-five minutes ago. At first Sherlock had hardly noticed he wasn't home and had just commenced on rambling from his room, assuming John was there to listen. When John's presumed unresponsiveness became boring, he had finally looked around to realize John was not home. That was approximately twenty-two minutes ago.

The only logical solution was that John had been kidnapped.

To the common village idiots walking around on the streets, it might seem like a ridiculous notion. But Sherlock knew exactly when John left work every day, like clockwork. It was one of the leftover military habits of his. If he didn't leave on time he got antsy. The stoplights on the route he took were highly predictable, as was the traffic at this time of day. Unless there was a wreck, which Sherlock would have known about, because the neighbor across the street always turned his TV off when those came on the news. He also knew that John wasn't at the market or off doing another errand, because Sherlock had seen the signs earlier this week that they were unneeded. He kept up with these things so he would know John's schedule without ever asking.

Sherlock ran his finger along his lips in thought. So, obvious conclusion being that John was kidnapped. That was the most common and logical theory he could contemplate. Still, there was no reason why anyone would do it.

The doorbell rang once, a long, hard push. Sherlock would normally deduce that this meant a client, but it was about a second shorter than normal. He knew it was about John. Just like he knew there would be no one at the door when he got down there.

He leapt up from the couch in one smooth motion, satiny blue dressing gown billowing behind him like a cape. His feet pounded down the staircase quickly. Ms. Hudson yelled something about the ruckus from back in her room, but Sherlock ignored her as he knew it was irrelevant. He paused for only a moment at the door before yanking it open and having his suspicions confirmed. Kneeling down he paused to inspect the envelope sitting in front of the door with his name inscribed in perfect cursive. It was placed perfectly straight, in an unhurried manner, so the deliverer was not concerned about being caught. He picked it up and stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

Ms. Hudson had finally caught up to him in the stair well. "Sherlock, what's all this noise about? Not another murder I hope?" she said, fiddling with her cardigan.

"No, a kidnapping." Sherlock said, focused on the letter in his hands. He flipped it over examining it thoroughly.

"Oh, well, I suppose that's not quite as bad. I'm sure you'll find him. Who is it then that's been kidnapped?" Ms. Hudson asked.

Sherlock didn't have time for her questions. Kidnappings had a limited window of opportunity and he had to act swiftly.

"Corner dented and a bit bent, so it must be a woman that carried it in her purse rather than a man who'd deliver it by hand." Sherlock took a long sniff the paper. "No scent of anything but manufactured paper, so she didn't take it home. Did it on a cab ride over. Dark ink, so a nice pen, something they use frequently as the ink is a bit light in S. Small shop owner then, who can't always afford new pens." Sherlock mutter to himself, ripping the envelope open.

"Sherlock, who's been kidnapped?" Ms. Hudson asked again.

Sherlock paused for a moment, taking in the waxy floral scent that had been concealed inside the envelope. The actual letter had been written somewhere that often burnt candles. Well that narrowed the field considerably. The paper was heavy, and lavender in color. Sherlock ran his finger down the edge. Rough texture; organic or perhaps handmade. Same loopy cursive writing inside. He read the contents swiftly.

"_Hello Sherlock.  
I'm sure by the time you get this you'll have already figured out something has happened to your lovely flatmate John. I'm also just as certain you've already figured out where to find me. I hope I didn't make it too easy for you. Don't worry, I won't harm him. I would advise coming to get him rather quickly though. See you soon._

_Cheers,  
The Mystic Lady_

_P.S.- I should clarify; I won't harm him _permanently_. _"

Sherlock's mind raced, putting all the pieces together.

"Sherlock!" Ms. Hudson huffed from by the stairway, losing her patience. Sherlock had forgotten about her standing there.

"It's John, Ms. Hudson. Not to worry though, I know exactly where he is."

With that he ran out of the door and onto the street of London.

Sherlock stood in front of the psychic's shop. Or rather, he should say, he stood in front of a front. He snorted at the thought. Even the idea that anyone could be clairvoyant was beyond the realm of the laws of physics. The one things Sherlock's racing mind could not perceive is what this woman could possibly want with John.

Ignoring that fact for the moment, he dug into his pocket, pulled his cell phone, and dialed the appropriate number.

"Detective-Inspector Lestrade."

"John's been taken. He's at 312 South Harland street." Sherlock said, jumping straight to the point. He didn't have time for any of that 'chatting' thing people did.

"Sherlock, slow down. How do you know he's been taken?" Lestrade said, sounding frazzled. Sherlock could picture him leaned forward in his chair, hand tightening around his phone the way he did when he was stressed.

"Detective, really, did you forget who you were talking to?" Sherlock said, pacing quickly in front of the door.

"Okay, how do you know where they took him? Where are you at?" Lestrade said. Sherlock could hear him rising from his chair in the background.

"I got a letter on my doorstep from the owner of the shop. Don't try to keep up; just meet me here. I'll need someone to arrest her." Sherlock said, pacing stopping as he studied the store front.

"Arrest her- Sherlock don't tell me you're already there!" He could practically hear Lestrade's blood pressure rising over the phone.

"Obviously. Where else would I be. Now please hurry. Don't bring Anderson either, he'll only slow you down." Sherlock said.

"Wait, Sherlock, hold on-" Lestrade scrambled over the phone.

Sherlock promptly clicked the phone shut and put it back in his pocket.

"Come on, time to wake up. That's it, rise and shine."

John blinked rapidly, his vision still blurry. What in the world had happened? He remembered walking out of the hospital building, and an older woman approaching him. She had been dressed in a flowery lengthy skirt, and a simple white button-up top. John vaguely recalled the oddity of her long brown hair pleated in a braid. She had asked John for something, his brain grasped to remember what, and then she had muttered a few words. He thought there might have been a white powder tossed at him sometime as well.

John groaned and tried to reach his hand up to rub his weary eyes. However, a restricting force was stopping him. Experimentally he wiggled his hands. Rope. Unfortunately he had treated enough rope burns in the army to know the more he fought it, the harsher it would cut into his wrist.

"I can see you wiggling your fingers, you know. Might as well open your eyes." Came the feminine voice from across the room.

Caught, John decided to go ahead and open his eyes. He soaked in the vision of the room in front of him, military training in him automatically looking for an escape route. Judging from the stretch of light, there was one window behind him. Probably just barely peeking over the top of the pavement; if the angle was an indication. So, a basement, which made sense considering the overflow of strange objects around him. Dusty boxes with piles of darkly colored objects like starry tablecloths and fat half-melted candles littered the room. Little white prices tags hung off a few trinkets on a book case shoved in a corner. A shop, John gathered. One of those odd psychic stores, most likely. John's eyes bulged as it landed on the figure of the woman in front of him. Yes, most certainly a psychic shop. The woman was dress in a loose purple skirt with fine lines of gold crawling up it, and a flowing back blouse. A forest green bandanna was secured around her head.

"Where am I?" John rasped, throat dry from the unwilling nap he had just taken.

The woman turned away from whatever she was drawing on the ground to face John. He could see the white streak in her dark brown hair now, as well as the slight wrinkles and laugh lines on her tanned face. Despite the signs of aging, her green eyes were still sharp. Yet her expression was warm in a way that reminded John of his grandmother, which did nothing to make the situation less creepy.

"Oh, hon, don't ask questions you already know the answer to. You're almost as smart as your friend Sherlock. Almost, but not quite." She patted John on the cheek, and John hastily tried to back away before realizing he was resting against a book shelf.

"Alright then; how about telling me why you took me?" John said, leaving out the bit about beside how she was clearly off her rocker. Best not to antagonize the kidnapper.

She smiled at John, resting back on her knees to face him. "That's an easy one. I need your flat mate Sherlock to solve problem for me. Problem is, he would never believe me. Too much faith in science." She look a bit put out at the mention of science, twisting her nose.

"Yes, that's because unlike you he's not insane." John muttered under his breathe.

"What did you say?"

"Oh what? Nothing." John said, as if he had no clue what she was talking about.

She gave him a chastening look for a moment before continuing. "Anyways, you're going to help me with that."

She turned away from John and began lighting the candle around the little circle she had drawn.

"And how exact is kidnapping me going to help with that?" John said, voice getting a bit high pitched. He didn't like where all this odd witchy stuff was going. He didn't know much about magic, but he had seen things on the telly before about human sacrifices. That was enough to make him nervous.

"Oh don't you worry. You'll be just fine after this is all done." She said distractedly, drawing a small rectangular piece of plastic from a baggy skirt pocket.

"Hey!" John exclaimed, struggling a bit. "That's Sherlock credit card! How did you get that?!" Of course this woman was after money. Frauds like her were always scheming for a way to pull off their next big trick and make an easy cent while they were at it.

"Now, now, just calm down. I took it out of your pockets while you were napping. I need something of Sherlock's, of course. Otherwise this would all be a waste of time." She said, as if it was obviously. She waved the card in the air a bit, and then tossed it on a bowl in the center of the triangle.

"Yes, of course, that's obviously a key component of a kidnapping." John said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"Silly John, you'll understand when this is over." She said is a light hearted voice. She then tossed what looked a few more herbs and assorted bones into the bowl. Reaching over, she grabbed a match box, lit one, and tossed it in the bowl. A small flame flared up from it.

"Well there goes the money from next month's rent." John said wearily.

"Consider yourself lucky. This spells costs a pretty penny, and a highly skilled lady of magic to cast it." She said, smoothing over her skirts as she spoke, a slightly proud look on her face.

"It's just fantastic." John deadpanned.

"Yes, well, as much as I've liked chatting with you- and I truly have, and bring a new light to this place- it's time to move on with the spell." She said, pulling a knife out from beside her and sprinkling it with ash from the bowl.

"Bloody hell!" John yelled, yanking on his restraints now. Forget his wrists; he would much rather live. Yet he was tied to the bookcase and bound by his hands and feet; how was he supposed to get out of this?!

The lady was walking slowly closer, carefully, as if he was a rapid dog. The knife looked old, with black script engraved all over it, and a wicked sharp point.

John could feel the blood running down his wrists, he was struggling so hard. They taught you everything in the military; how to disassemble a machine gun, how to kill a man with just your thumb. Even how to survive in the desert for weeks on end with minimal supplies. And that was just what they taught the doctors. But there was never any course of how to escape from a delusion witch woman.

It was the moment she stepping in front of John and lowered herself to her knees that John accepted it. There were too many things left to say; so many more things he wanted to savor in life. Yet as the woman help the tip over his heart, John blocked fear of death out the same way he had a battlefield.

Instead he focused on a little spot of light cast from the window in the corner, dust motes dancing lazily in it. It reminded him of the sunny day he first met Sherlock. Of course, it wasn't sunny down in that little room at Bart's. Even Sherlock's smile wasn't warm. But John could feel a small fire starting in his heart of the good memories he and Sherlock did have. Those rare moments when that cold logic he wore as a masked slipped, and John saw the heart of the human being he always suspected was there. He had never had a friend like Sherlock, because there were no friends like Sherlock. There was no man on earth like Sherlock. In fact, if John had to list the accomplishment of he was most proud of, it would have to be having him as a friend. It was worth running around London with him at two in the morning risking their lives, worth all the times he was told he was stupid or unobservant; because he was the only person that got to share the happy memories with Sherlock as well. Out of the entire world, Sherlock had chosen him to keep around.

And as he lay there facing certain death, that little fire left his heart. It flowed into his blood, warming him from head to toe. It felt better than any sunny day, any cozy blanket. It enveloped him with its memories, taking him to a place no knife or pain could reach.

"Don't worry John. Sherlock will find me when he needs to." The woman's voice said, trickling through John's warm cocoon of darkness.

"That's not a question. Of course he will. Because he's Sherlock. He's my best friend, Sherlock Holmes."

And Sherlock's name was the last words that left John's lips.


	2. When Logic Falls

_**A/N- So like, don't hate me for this chapter. Also, I feel obligated to tell you that my writing isn't normally this depressing. Normally I like writing humor. Humor! Like this story will eventually get to be. Don't look at me that way; it's possible. Oh, and please ignore typos, proof reading was limited because I wanted to get this out here for you guys. It'll get corrected as I reading back through it. Anyways, I wanted to thank Chrissy Truman and Shi-Toyu on for their awesome reviews that inspired me to write more on this story. Hope you like it guys! ;) Anyways, it should get happier before the next chapter, so you're not allowed to murder me before then. Well… I hope you actually do enjoy this somewhat… somehow…**_

He carefully scrutinized the storefront. It had an overall tacky and worn appearance, like most of these places do. The front awning was a deep shade of purple, stretched out in a curve over the dark wooden door. Fading white and colored letters were painted on the window to the left, advertising everything from palm reading and homemade candles to dried herbs. In the center was a depiction of hands clasping a crystal ball. He supposed the overall effect was supposed to be mysterious and old, but to him it just looked rundown and tacky.

Sherlock strode up to the store front and open the door carefully. It was a wise choice to change back into the coat; it would help him blend in with the atmosphere of the store. He yanked up his sleeve to check his watch. Lestrade should be here in a ten minutes. That gave him a reasonable head start and the ability to make good on a threat of backup if the situation called for it.

Sherlock pushed through the door, the coppery sound of a bell ringing accompanying him into the shop. His eyes flickered about, registering details immediately. The shop did not garner much attention from either customers or its owner, judging by the dust piled upon the shelves. The shelves themselves were stacked with strange odds and end that the owner only seemed to organize by putting the shiny and large object near the front. The back wall was filled with hanging bushels of herbs. Pushing by the messy and scattered irrelevant objects, Sherlock followed the worn pattern in the rugs over to what served as a checkout counter. The hunk of dark wood stretched across at least three-thirds of the side wall.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. This area was clean, not intentionally, but it had the kind of organization what comes with frequent use. His eyes darted to the books knocked over at the end of the counter. Leaping over the wood behemoth, Sherlock crouched to inspect the only fallen pile of books. The other here were neatly stacked, one of the only neat things in the room.

Sherlock glanced back at his watch. He only had about three minutes now.

The wood was slightly brighter next to the book, like someone had applied of new coat of polish. Why would someone bother only cleaning one area of shoe scuffs? Unless they were trying to hide something that wasn't from a shoe.

Moving quickly, Sherlock's finger flew over the seams in the wall. He could feel it; the slight breeze and constructed crack in the molding. He only needed to find the right place to press. The latch clicked and the door popped open a bit.

Behind him he heard the opening of another door. Throw open was more accurate- it seemed Lestrade and the crew were finally here.

"Sherlock, wait, this could be a crime scene-"

Obviously it would be if he stood around and waited for them to waste time with all of their useless politics and procedures. If he entered the room now, he could have at least five minutes of time before they found the latch. Plenty of time. Without even turning to acknowledge them, Sherlock grasped the edge of the door and threw it open, slipping in before slamming it behind them.

Sherlock scanned the room, drinking I the sight. The mystic woman was long gone, and there was no point in pursuing her. She had left John behind though; there it only indicated one person had left out the backdoor. Around the corner of the shelf he could see the edge of a large wooden bowl. The scent of blood ash permitted the air. So it was a type of deluded ritual. Interesting.

All of this took Sherlock approximately thirty-four seconds to deduce. It took him less time to run away from the door and round the shelf, where he knew John must be tied.

Everything became slower, and details became so obviously they hurt. Like the scent of blood in the air Sherlock had unintentional ignored when he walked in the door. He footsteps felt so soft so slow. Everything felt inadequate. And it must be, because for the first time in his life his mind rebelled against the logic it had built itself out of his. His carefully constructed and maintained walls disintegrated and crumbled at this sight.

The sight of John's unmoving body lying against the shelf. His empty gaze at the window. The pool of blood forming around him. The blood drying on John's ugly jumper.

"JOHN!" It didn't even feel like a word out of Sherlock's mouth, and it certainly didn't sound like it came from him. His head whirled like it was stuffed with drugs as he collapsed to his knees in front of John, warm blood soaking through his trousers.

His mind could tell him everything. He knew John had died only moments before he had arrived; the temperature of the blood told him that. The sun's reflection in John's glassy eyes could tell him what time it was now. The state of John's jumper told him he had put up a fight, at least until the end, when he had stopped resisting. The wound revealed precise shape of the dagger that killed him; Sherlock could even diagram it. The position of this head and gaze indicated he had said something, just before he died.

What Sherlock's brain couldn't tell him-couldn't comprehend- was why John wasn't still here. Why Sherlock's massive intellect hadn't been quick enough. It seemed impossible.

But when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable; must be the truth.

Sherlock grabbed two fistfuls of John's jumper.

"John." He rasped, quieter now. His eyes staring into John's hazel eyes, which stared back at him, blankly. Lifeless. No reflection of the laughter they had shared, and the wide runs they had taken through London.

He was still staring into the brown-rimmed and blue eyes when his brain sluggishly acknowledged the door opening.

At this time he knew what was coming. So he set himself to the task of deducing every remaining detail of John he possibly could. His gaze search in a way it never could have previously across the distance between them.

By the time he heard Donvan's gasp and Anderson's predictable swears, he already knew every time John had fallen off his bike before he was seven.

When he felt Lestrade's hand on him, he knew the hair color of John's primary school crush.

As they tried to pull him away, Sherlock figured out where John kept his old photographs.

He recalled yanking his arm away and shouting the words, "No, I'm not done yet!"

There was something said about him being sick and twisted and something else unimportant about how: "We couldn't possible understand what it's like for a person like him."

When he was finally forced away, he didn't move much. He just stared at John as he was dragged away. He face felt like it was made of stone, carved forever facing that expression and those once-bright eyes.

By the time they had him out the door, he had deduced perhaps the two most important things of all.

The words light traced in the dust were unconsciously drawn and paired exactly with the last ones John had spoken.

It was his name.

Also, of equal importance.

He knew where she was.

And there was no corner of the world she could go; no place she could find sanctuary in; not pit she would crawl into; where Sherlock wouldn't find her.


End file.
